Harding's Luck Part 7

They got quite close to it before the shelter of the trees ended, for a little wood lay between the wall and the house.

d.i.c.kie's heart was beating very fast. Quite soon, now, his part in the adventure would begin.

"'Ere--catch 'old," Mr. Beale was saying, and the red-whiskered man took d.i.c.kie in his arms, and went forward. The other two crouched in the wood.

d.i.c.kie felt himself lifted, and caught at the window-sill with his hands. It was a damp night and smelled of earth and dead leaves. The window-sill was of stone, very cold. d.i.c.kie knew exactly what to do. Mr.

Beale had explained it over and over again all day. He settled himself on the broad window-ledge and held on to the iron window-bars while the red-whiskered man took out a pane of gla.s.s, with treacle and a handkerchief, so that there should be no noise of breaking or falling gla.s.s. Then d.i.c.kie put his hand through and unfastened the window, which opened like a cupboard door. Then he put his feet through the narrow s.p.a.ce between two bars and slid through. He hung inside with his hands holding the bars, till his foot found the table that he had been told to expect just below, and he got from that to the floor.

"Now I must remember exactly which way to go," he told himself. But he did not need to remember what he had been told. For quite certainly, and most oddly, he _knew_ exactly where the door was, and when he had crept to it and got it open he found that he now knew quite well which way to turn and what pa.s.sages to go along to get to that little side-door that he was to open for the three men. It was exactly as though he had been there before, in a dream. He went as quietly as a mouse, creeping on hands and knee, the lame foot dragging quietly behind him.

I will not pretend that he was not frightened. He was, very. But he was more brave than he was frightened, which is the essence of bravery, after all. He found it difficult to breathe quietly, and his heart beat so loudly that he felt almost sure that if any people were awake in the house they would hear it, even up-stairs in their beds. But he got to the little side-door, and feeling with sensitive, quick fingers found the well-oiled bolt, and shot it back. Then the chain--holding the loose loop of it in his hand so that it should not rattle, he slipped its ball from the socket. Only the turning of the key remained, and d.i.c.kie accomplished that with both hands, for it was a big key, kneeling on his one sound knee. Then very gently he turned the handle, and pulled--and the door opened, and he crept from behind it and felt the cool, sweet air of the night on his face.

It seemed to him that he had never known what silence was before--or darkness. For the door opened into a close box arbor, and no sky could be seen, or any shapes of things. d.i.c.kie felt himself almost bursting with pride. What an adventure! And he had carried out his part of it perfectly. He had done exactly what he had been told to do, and he had done it well. He stood there, on his one useful foot, clinging to the edge of the door, and it was not until something touched him that he knew that Mr. Beale and the other men were creeping through the door that he had opened.

And at that touch a most odd feeling came to d.i.c.kie--the last feeling he would have expected--a feeling of pride mixed with a feeling of shame.

Pride in his own cleverness, and another kind of pride that made that cleverness seem shameful. He had a feeling, very queer and very strong, that he, d.i.c.kie, was not the sort of person to open doors for the letting in of burglars. He felt as you would feel if you suddenly found your hands covered with filth, not good honest dirt, but slimy filth, and would not understand how you could have let it get there.

He caught at the third shape that brushed by him.

"Father," he whispered, "don't do it. Go back, and I'll fasten it all up again. Oh! don't, father."

"Shut your mug!" whispered the red-whiskered man. d.i.c.kie knew his voice even in that velvet-black darkness. "Shut your mug, or I'll give you what for!"

"Don't, father," said d.i.c.kie, and said it all the more for that threat.

"I can't go back on my pals, matey," said Mr. Beale; "you see that, don't yer?"

d.i.c.kie did see. The adventure was begun: it was impossible to stop. It was helped and had to be eaten, as they say in Norfolk. He crouched behind the open door, and heard the soft pad-pad of the three men's feet on the stones of the pa.s.sage grow fainter and fainter. They had woolen socks over their boots, which made their footsteps sound no louder than those of padded p.u.s.s.y-feet. Then the soft rustle-pad died away, and it was perfectly quiet, perfectly dark. d.i.c.kie was tired; it was long past his proper bedtime, and the exertion of being so extra clever had been very tiring. He was almost asleep when a crack like thunder brought him stark, staring awake--there was a noise of feet on the stairs, boots, a blundering, hurried rush. People came rushing past him. There was another sharp thunder sound and a flash like lightning, only much smaller. Some one tripped and fell; there was a clatter like pails, and something hard and smooth hit him on the knee. Then another hurried presence dashed past him into the quiet night. Another--No! there was a woman's voice.

"Edward, you shan't! Let them go! You shan't--no!"

And suddenly there was a light that made one wink and blink. A tall lady in white, carrying a lamp, swept down the stairs and caught at a man who sprang into being out of the darkness into the lamplight.

"Take the lamp," she said, and thrust it on him. Then with unbelievable quickness she bolted and chained the door, locked it, and, turning, saw d.i.c.kie.

"What's this?" she said. "Oh, Edward, quick--here's one of them! . . .

Why--it's a child----"

Some more people were coming down the stairs, with candles and excited voices. Their clothes were oddly bright. d.i.c.kie had never seen dressing-gowns before. They moved in a very odd way, and then began to go round and round like tops.

The next thing that d.i.c.kie remembers is being in a room that seemed full of people and lights and wonderful furniture, with some one holding a gla.s.s to his lips, a little gla.s.s, that smelled of public-houses, very nasty.

"No!" said d.i.c.kie, turning away his head.

"Better?" asked a lady; and d.i.c.kie was astonished to find that he was on her lap.

"Yes, thank you," he said, and tried to sit up, but lay back again because that was so much more pleasant. He had had no idea that any one's lap could be so comfortable.

"Now, young man," said a stern voice that was not a lady's, "just you tell us how you came here, and who put you up to it."

"I got in," said d.i.c.kie feebly, "through the butler's pantry window,"

and as he said it he wondered how he had known that it was the butler's pantry. It is certain that no one had told him.

"What for?" asked the voice, which d.i.c.kie now perceived came from a gentleman in rumpled hair and a very loose pink flannel suit, with cordy things on it such as soldiers have.

"To let----" d.i.c.kie stopped. This was the moment he had been so carefully prepared for. He must think what he was saying.

"Yes," said the lady gently, "it's all right--poor little chap, don't be frightened--n.o.body wants to hurt you!"

"I'm not frightened," said d.i.c.kie--"not now."

"To let----?" reminded the lady, persuasively.

"To let the man in."

"What man?"

"I dunno."

"There were three or four of them," said the gentleman in pink; "four or five----"

"What man, dear?" the lady asked again.

"The man as said 'e knew w'ere my farver was," said d.i.c.kie, remembering what he had been told to say; "so I went along of 'im, an' then in the wood 'e said 'e'd give me a dressing down if I didn't get through the winder and open the door; 'e said 'e'd left some tools 'ere and you wouldn't let 'im 'ave them."

"You see," said the lady, "the child didn't know. He's perfectly innocent." And she kissed d.i.c.kie's hair very softly and kindly.

d.i.c.kie did not understand then why he suddenly felt as though he were going to choke. His head felt as though it were going to burst. His ears grew very hot, and his hands and feet very cold.

"I know'd right enough," he said suddenly and hoa.r.s.ely; "an' I needn't a-gone if I 'adn't wanted to."

"He's feverish," said the lady, "he doesn't know what he's saying. Look how flushed he is."

"I wanted to," said d.i.c.kie; "I thought it 'ud be a lark. And it was too."

He expected to be shaken and put down. He wondered where his crutch was.

Mr. Beale had had it under his arm. How could he get to Gravesend without a crutch? But he wasn't shaken or put down; instead, the lady gathered him up in her arms and stood up, holding him.

"I shall put him to bed," she said; "you shan't ask him any more questions to-night. There's time enough in the morning."

She carried d.i.c.kie out of the drawing-room and away from the other people to a big room with blue walls and blue and gray curtains and beautiful furniture. There was a high four-post bed with blue silk curtains and more pillows than d.i.c.kie had ever seen before. The lady washed him with sweet-smelling water in a big basin with blue and gold flowers on it, dressed him in a lace-trimmed nightgown, which must have been her own, for it was much too big for any little boy.

Then she put him into the soft, warm bed that was like a giant's pillow, tucked him up and kissed him. d.i.c.kie put thin arms round her neck.

"I do like you," he said, "but I want farver."

"Where is he? No, you must tell me that in the morning. Drink up this milk"--she had it ready in a gla.s.s that sparkled in a pattern--"and then go sound asleep. Everything will be all right, dear."

"May Heavens," said d.i.c.kie, sleepily, "bless you, generous Bean Factress!"